


06/20/1983

by KIBITZER



Category: Higurashi no Naku Koro ni | Higurashi When They Cry
Genre: Drabble, F/M, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TAKANO, Worst Birthday Ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KIBITZER/pseuds/KIBITZER
Summary: June 20th, the day after Watanagashi, was Takano Miyo's birthday.





	06/20/1983

**Author's Note:**

> (Takes place after Matsuribayashi-hen, so, uh...spoilers :B )

The day following Watanagashi eve, Takano Miyo woke up in an unfamiliar bed. She couldn’t remember falling asleep. The fear that lanced through her was enough to chase the dregs of sleep from her system—where was this? What had happened? Who—

Watanagashi eve. She had lost. She had lost everything. She had been betrayed. Everyone she had depended on had betrayed her—even Nomura, _even—_

Dangerous. Here was dangerous. Those traitorous demons were probably surrounding her right at this very moment, jeering where she couldn’t see them, congratulating one another on a ruse well done. After they were done gloating, they’d surely come for her, ruin her further, destroy her body as well as her work.

Takano moved to rise, but her wrists locked in place at her sides. Confused, she looked down, only to find broad leather bands binding her firmly to the bed.

No. No. No. No no no. She struggled like a feral beast, screaming before she knew it through a throat that was already shredded from crying. The straps did not yield even a hair’s width. Her ankles were bound as well. Chained to a bed, a cruel mimicry of comfort.

Liars. Traitors. Fuck. Fuck everyone. There wasn’t a single reliable human being in the world. She should have known that better than anyone. She should never have let her guard down.

But she had been tricked, by the simple lure of emotional satisfaction at the hands of another, by the bait of equally returned love. Even she, after all, was not above such human idiocy.

Perhaps the one to blame, more than anything, was Takano Miyo herself.

No. No, she couldn’t think that way. As long as she was alive, she could fight. As long as she could fight, she could win. As long as she could win—

She would just have to do it alone.  

The restraints were digging into her flesh, but still she thrashed, as if human strength alone could snap the thick material. The violent itch along her arms and throat was like fire. An animal like this was not meant for captivity. God had made her in His image—a thunderstorm contained in sinew and skin, a tempest of destruction, a raw wound walking. She had been made a worthy rival for an unfathomable God, and every atom of her being was a bullet poised to rip asunder the human world. She was not a being that could thrive in a cage. 

It was the day after Watanagashi eve—she should have been celebrating a grand victory. She should have defeated fate. She should have won.

Today was her birthday. She lay limp in the bed, staring into the white ceiling. Her skin crawled like a thousand insects were devouring her piece by piece.

There were no allies. There were no friends. She had been a fool to think she had support anywhere. She had been a fool to fall in love with the idea of happiness. She had been a fool to rely on others. She had been betrayed.

Humans were built to hurt one another, and she knew that.

And even so, when the door opened, her heart gave a hypocritical flutter of hope—to be found, to be rescued, to be set free and given aid. So far from port, tossed by the cruel waves of betrayal, even a mirage of land would be enough to bring her to her knees.

As soon as she saw Tomitake’s face, the spark of hope died, like pitting a candle against a hurricane. Traitor. Liar. Cold anger melted into her veins. If it hadn’t been for him, everything would have been fine. Had he been conspiring against her from the start? He had always been too kind. Too easy. He had been faking all along, hadn’t he?

And she had fallen for it, like an idiot.

Tomitake looked so tired. He walked like the entire world was resting its weight squarely on his shoulders, as if gravity itself was fighting to claim him more than anybody else. His own fault. He could have been standing victorious with her, or even resting peacefully by now, but instead, he chose to destroy her.

“Miyo.” He spoke softly, as if he was scared she might answer. “You’re awake.”

She didn’t respond, regarding him with a venomous look that would have withered a normal person down to a nervous shell—but this was no normal person. This was an insidious, traitorous, deceitful—

What was he going to do to her? Would she die here, now, in this prison? He lowered his eyes, looking down at a flat case in his hands. It opened with a dry snap. He looked at it for a while, then slowly raised his head to regard her again.

“You know what this is, right, Miyo?”

As if it would calm her, he showed her the case—a clear glass syringe, a vial of liquid, and a sterile needle. Her heart turned to ice, then accelerated, thumping against her ribs like a frightened bird. This was revenge. He was exacting revenge. This was exactly what she was going to do to him, once, before her plans had all been pulled apart by treacherous hands.

“You’re going to kill me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. “With my own drug. I admit I hadn’t pegged you for poetic justice, Jirou.”

Slowly, as if processing what she had said was a challenge, he blinked. Finally, with the careful enunciation of talking to a stubborn child: “You’re ill, Miyo. You know the shot will make you feel better. It’s not yours; it’s Irie’s C-120. Do you remember? It’ll cure—”

“You’re lying,” she hissed. “Liar. I always knew you weren’t worthy. That you would turn on me in an instant if you knew the truth. I always knew it was you or me, that we wouldn’t both survive—and _you_ won—so, you—”

“Miyo! _Listen_ to me.” The usually soft-spoken Tomitake cut her off, and sheer surprise locked her jaw. “They wanted to take you into immediate custody. Maybe you don’t understand what that would have meant for you, the way you are now. We convinced them otherwise, because you’re sick. _I_ convinced them otherwise. Don’t you remember?”

“I only remember being _lied_ to,” she wheezed, struggling against her restraints even as an unpleasant prickle in her memory grew into a sizable discomfort. Hazy memories pushed their faces against the windows to her mind, breaths fogging the glass. They smelled of rain and gunpowder.

“You can believe whatever you want,” Tomitake said after staring at the syringe for a moment. “You’re getting this either way. You’re going to come back down to a level three, maybe two. And, once you’re stable enough, you’re going to face everything you’ve done. Do you understand?”

Memories crowded her—the _banken_ unit with their guns, seizing her by the arms; a young, rain-soaked God; Tomitake’s voice cutting through the noise. A million raindrops heavy with sin, flooding her, flooding Hell, and only one slick crag to hold on to in the waves—he had faith in her, that she deserved recovery, that she was human enough to face a world after June 19th.

The syringe was in his hand.

“You know, I was going to get you a present,” he said. “For your birthday. But I didn’t know what to get. You never told me what you wanted.”

She looked away, laying her head to the side, avoiding all possible eye contact. “You weren’t supposed to be alive to see it.”

“But I’m here, Miyo. You can still go back. You’re sick right now, but we’ll make you better. You can’t undo what you’ve done—but you can atone.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the hot burning of tears in their corners. “No.”

Tomitake slipped the needle cap back onto the now empty syringe, then put the syringe into its case again and closed it. “I’ll be here. The entire time.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll be right by your side the whole time, Miyo.” He paused, massaging his own neck with a pained expression, a tone of fatigue biting onto his every word. “You’ll start to feel better soon, in just a couple of minutes. In a few hours, you’ll be able to sleep in a normal room, in a normal bed, without these restraints—that’s going to be nice, right?”

Gritting her teeth to smother every sob that threatened to sell out her weak human heart, Takano merely nodded.

“I know you didn’t want any of this,” he said, leaning over her and placing a careful kiss on her temple. “But if the only thing you wanted for your birthday this year was to kill or be killed, I’m afraid I can’t help. I’ll make it up to you next year. Okay?”

June 20th, the day after Watanagashi, was Takano Miyo’s birthday—and, slowly, as the day relentlessly ran into night, the angry ocean drained around her, leaving her shivering and cold on the rocks. Shivering and cold, but alive and still unchangeably human.


End file.
